The Ghost of Someplace Else
by Miri Fern
Summary: A rewritten version of the Phantom of the Opera using the characters from Ghosts. I own neither.
1. Prologue

In the part of town that was more country than metropolis, on a little hill that was only barely a hill at all, there was a great manor, a grand mansion of Gothic design. It had towers and spires and stained glass windows, as well as a huge staircase and a magnificent ballroom.

It was the early evening, a warm summer night in the year 1892. The house seemed to glow from within, the drowsy gleam of the now obsolete gaslight. A man in perhaps his early twenties arrived by carriage and walked up the path to the front door, passing by the plague reading "Someplace Else."

An ornate knocker shaped like a gargoyle's mouth hung on the door, made of brass. Hesitantly, the young man lifted it and thumped it three times against the mouth of the gargoyle. The door was opened by the butler, an elderly man immaculately dressed in a pressed suit, who took his coat and closed the door behind him.

The young man marvelled at the foyer, from the tiled floor to the colossal ceiling. Everything looked like sparkling gold, or red with the texture of velvet, or violet and silky. He could hear the muffled sound of voices, talking and laughing, and the smell of dinner cooking was so strong that he could almost taste the food.

"May I ask your name, sir?"

The young man was startled. "Thomas Chandler. I'm-I should be on the guest list, right?"

"Yes. Please, follow me, Mr. Chandler." The servant rasped, opening a set of doors to the right.

Approximately six others occupied the room, lounging around, drinking and conversing with their fellows. A lighthearted atmosphere hung dreamily over the whole of the house, removing much of the awkwardness of stiff attire and formality.

"Chandler!"

A meaty fist clamped down on Thomas' shoulder, jarring him. A very large, intimidating man with a thin mustache and small, beady eyes peered out at him through a faceful of wrinkles and sagging jowls.

"H-hello, Mr. Dubois." He stammered.

"Glad you could make it, boy!" Mr. Dubois wrapped his arm around Thomas, pulling him along as he spoke. "And on such short notice, too! Well, boy, what do you think of this place?"

"I've never seen anything like it, sir." He responded truthfully.

"You'd better not have. I built this place to be the eighth wonder of the world. Part of it's Gothic, part's a sultan's palace!"

He laughed, a great roar, and thumped Thomas on the back. "Ah, how rude of me; I haven't asked you about yourself. How is your career?"

Chandler frowned. "The same. Nothing has changed."

"You know how politics are, boy. Some day, you'll rise above the rest; For now, bide your time until someone notices you for the shrewd man you are."

The doors opened again. Mr. Dubois went on talking, but Thomas hardly heard.

A girl entered the room in a swish of petticoats. She was young, nineteen at the oldest, and looked unsure of what she was doing there. But that wasn't the reason for Thomas' staring. She was lovely, her cheeks pink, her lips full, her eyes sparkling. A smile danced at the corners of her mouth, even with the uncertainty in her gaze.

"Elizabeth!" Said a voice from behind the two men, and a woman darted out to greet the new guest. "I'm so glad to see you!"

The woman kissed her on both cheeks. She was middle-aged, with the regal beauty of a gently aging queen. As Thomas watched, she hooked arms with Elizabeth and lead her into another room. He would have followed, but Mr. Dubois had him leashed.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't come." The woman went on, guiding the younger girl away from the crowd. "I know you are very busy, and I didn't want you to waste your time-"

"Really, there wasn't a problem, Mrs. Dubois." Elizabeth replied shyly. "I'm not shackled to the opera house."

Mrs. Dubois sighed softly. "Well, just know that I was concerned. I had heard you were ill."

"Only with a sprained ankle. It healed quickly."

"That's not the sort of illness I heard about."

Something in her tone made Elizabeth's brow furrow, and she didn't reply.

"Anyway, since you're here and well," Mrs. Dubois broke the silence, "what do you think?"

Elizabeth looked around. She had been lead into an unoccupied drawing room, as grand as the rest of the house, but with a slightly more pleasant aura. A mirror stood at one end of the room, reflecting the orange glow of candlelight. "It's all quite a bit to take in…"

"Yes, it is, isn't it? Sometimes, I forget I'm home, and not visiting some far off castle." Mrs. Dubois' eyes swept over the furniture, and she exhaled in contentment. "Well, I believe I'm needed back."

Elizabeth turned from her to take one last longing look at the room-and shrieked.

In the mirror was a face with a body that was not her own.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I-I-" But even as she pointed to the mirror, the image had gone, replaced with her own reflection. "It was there only a moment ago…"

Mrs. Dubois looked confused-and slightly irritated. "Elizabeth, are you sure you're feeling well?"

"Of course! It must have been a trick of the light. Let's go back to the others…"

Even as they went, a third pair of eyes watched them go. The figure in the mirror drew back, his eyes glassed with moved tears he closed with longing. "Elizabeth…"

Thomas, only recently having managed to get away from Mr. Dubois, nearly ran into Elizabeth.

"I'm sorry, sir." She said, in a high, lilting voice, sweet as a rose. Thomas gawked at her, but her attention was not on him. "Excuse me..."

She brushed past him without a second glance. The young man, wounded, headed toward the decanter tray and poured himself several drinks.

The party was beginning to drag, and Mrs. Dubois knew it. "Perhaps we could all use some entertainment." She began, recieving a few murmurs of approval. Looking around frantically, her eyes fell on Elizabeth, still trailing behind her. "Miss O'Neale! Would you care to entertain us?"

This gave the girl pause. "Wha-"

"The word is that Miss O'Neale is being trained in secret to become an opera singer." Mrs. Dubois continued, speaking loudly so that everyone could hear. All ears instantly became attentive at the word secret. "We would be honored if you would sing for us."

"I-I'm only a ballerina. My voice isn't nearly strong enough to-" But one look at the eager faces of the guests and the urgent look on Mrs. Dubois' told her the damage had been done. There was no choice left in the matter; She would sing for them.

Nervously, she began an aria. At first, she faltered, but soon her voice grew, until it rang clear as a bell and more beautiful than anyone had expected. All were entranced by it-particularly Thomas Chandler, even through the brandy.

When she finished, there was silence. She stared at the floor, appearing modest to hide her fear. Inside the walls, a noise like a soft sigh seeped through the plaster.

"I've heard much better singing at an actual opera house." Announced one man, a fat, redfaced gentleman in a drunken slur. "She won't amount to much, I can tell."

This sobered everyone, and they set to talking at once, agreeing.

Elizabeth swallowed hard, her cheeks burning and pulse pounding. Mrs. Dubois appeared to put her hand on her arm. "Elizabeth, you don't understand-Mr. Evans is a very influential man, they have to agree with him or it will reflect badly on them. You really were very good-"

She did listen, for she was on her way out. Her shoes clicked on the tiled floor of the foyer, Mrs. Dubois behind her, apologizing profusely. Thomas, too, was stumbling after them.

They were nearing the door when the lights flickered and went out, plunging the house into sudden darkness.

Havoc broke out. Men shouted, women screamed. Something large and fragile was knocked over in the confusion, shattering and sending sharp bits everywhere. Elizabeth was pushed away from the door, and then knocked flat on her back.

Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, Elizabeth turned her head. The gaslights were still burning upstairs. What had made them go out on the first floor alone?

She saw a figure climbing the stairs at a strange limping pace-it was the drunk Mr. Evans. "You there! Stop!" He shouted breathlessly, waving his hands violently. She couldn't see who he was shouting at.

Just as Mr. Evans reached the landing, the gaslight nearest to him was blown out with the sound of breaking glass. He let out a cry of surprise that was suddenly silenced. Elizabeth tried to get up, but found that something was pressing down on top of her, pinning her to the floor.

Something was banging around on the steps, as though two animals were fighting. She heard a thump and a muffled yelp, then the sound of creaking rope.

The house burst aflame as the lights came back on. Elizabeth cringed, shielding her eyes-then screamed.

Mr. Evans was hanging from the stair rail by a noose, his head slack, eyes glazed. The rope wasn't tied to railing, though; a man was standing there, struggling to hold the rope.

His eyes, wide in shock, met hers, and the rope went slack. Mr. Evans' corpse hit the floor.

She screamed again, this time in horror. She knew the murderer's face, the same face that she had seen in the mirror only minutes before.

It contorted, pained, agonized, then he reached up and covered his face with his thin white hands.

Another man-this she knew to be Mr. Dubois-ran into the foyer and saw the body. "My God…"

When she looked back, the murderer had vanished.


	2. Chapter 1: Masquerade

It was six months after the murder that Thomas Chandler once again found himself in the foyer of Someplace Else.

On this visit, he did not go to the dining room, nor was he wearing a formal tuxedo, as he had that fateful night a man was hung from the stair rail. This time, he entered the ballroom previously mentioned to be, at the time, huge and extravagant and so on and so forth.

When he walked in, it was lit blindingly bright and teeming with outrageously dressed people. They made for a blur of bright colors-reds, purples, blues, greens-and glittering jewels adorning gowns and uniforms and wild costumes. But it is most important to note that they were all wearing masks. Thomas, too, wore a mask, because it was a masquerade ball they were all attending, with ten times as many people swirling around to lively music played by a hidden orchestra.

He did wonder then and long after how the Dubois were able to throw a masquerade ball such as this when someone had been murdered in their own home, and for that matter why had he come in the first place, just politics?, but there was far more to wonder about than their steadfastness.

The guests knew it, too. As he allowed himself to be caught up in the dancing and the festivities, Thomas caught the words upon lips accustomed to gossip and speculation.

"The authorities gave up the investigation far too quickly. They ruled it as suicide when there was an eyewitness!"

"I say they were paid off."

"Better yet, the Dubois bribed them!"

"But they made sure not to invite the O'Neale girl this time!"

This last statement made Thomas's heart sink. Now he had the real answer to his second question, and knowing made him feel incredible foolish; for he had hoped against all hopes that in coming to this masquerade, he might, just might find Elizabeth.

He wanted badly to see her. But how could he see her here anyway? Everyone was wearing a mask!

_It is still early in the evening,_ he thought as he made his way back to the foyer. _I can still leave now, and not seem like such an idiot..._

By what would seem a twist of fate, he came to a halt in the archway, eyes widening within the mask. Someone else was already in the doorway. They stood both stiffly and fluidly, heels together and toes facing out, holding a silvery mask lightly over their eyes. Just as well, he recognized them immediately.

_"Miss O'Neale?"_ He stared, dumbfounded.

She blinked, her full brows furrowing as she lowered her mask. "Yes, sir?" Purple and blue bled together across her dress, kaleidoscopic, and a tiara that seemed to be made out of stars rested atop her head, cushioned by her light brownish ringlets. The effect was that of a night sky.

"I-I thought you weren't going to come-"

She smiled, but he detected a nervousness in her voice. "I was invited at the last minute. Perhaps the Dubois wanted my arrival to be a surprise." Looking around him at the contents of the ballroom, her face stretched in gleeful awe.

"But-You witnessed the murder. Doesn't coming here... bother you?"

Her smile faded as she turned back to him. Though it was brief, he thought he saw an intense look of fear in her doe-like eyes, before she said, in a voice that was more pleading than commanding, "I am to meet someone here tonight. If you would excuse me..."

She slipped past him and disappeared into the crowd without so much as a backwards glance.

Elizabeth tried to maneuver through the horde of dancers in grotesque disguises, but it was like a sea, and she was swept up in the current. She struggled, but the force of movement was too strong. It was suffocating, trapping, and she was panicking-

Someone reached out and grasped her hand. Their flesh was cold and clammy, but their grip was strong, and strangely comforting. Her eyes lifted to seek the face that belonged to the hand, and was met with a porcelain mask.

She could see it was a man. His light hair was slicked back. Dark eyes stared out with a hypnotic gaze, lined with black to further conceal his identity. His mouth was visible and it was smiling, almost malevolently, but she knew if he commanded her she would obey.

He did not speak, but lead her out of the crowd. Slowly, as the bodies fell away, more of him was made visible, and she could see a thin, pale form clad in black pants and a frilly white poet shirt that he nearly bled into. He was ghostly, gliding; and she could not take her eyes off of him.

She was walking away from everything, to shadows and darkness and a staircase that was there one moment and gone the next, all the while under his spell.

He led her up, up, into a place that was more night than she had known could exist, to what seemed an island in an ocean of nothingness, surrounded by the Void, the land of Nod reborn in the dark, where she abandoned her unneeded mask, for nothing could be seen.

In this absolute, he stopped, and sat down on stone. She sat next to him, numb and blind. A shaft of ivory slipped through the roof to bathe them in moonlight. Yet there was feeling as his hand left hers, a feeling of growing cold, like a goodbye, as the cool air struck her exposed palm.

"Elizabeth," he spoke her name for the first time, and his voice carried and echoed and flitted about, "sing for me."

Her mouth fell open, and out poured opacity in the blank of space. His body grew taut as a bowstring, startled. She had awed him.

The vibration of tones went on, cutting the silence. They took root in her throat and flowered on her lips, life released into the Void, a homage to Genesis.

He joined her, his own voice ethereal and unearthly, a stranger beauty that she alone could know. As they sang together, and became one, a single thought arose in the rapture of their song's stirred emotions:

_I must see his face!_

It was quick. The mask came off with ease. Along with it went his slicked back hair. A wig.

The hair that replaced it was long, black, curling. From the porcelain emerged a skeletal face, half boy, half dead.

His eyes doubled in size, and she recognized him.

It was the man she saw at the top of the stairs.

It was the murderer.

He had brought her here.

She was alone with him.

A strangled noise escaped her, and she fell back, into darkness and nothing. He caught her, held her tightly in his arms. She could not struggle, as all the strength seemed to have left her limbs.

"Elizabeth! You must understand-I don't want to hurt you!"

Her eyes darted to his, where devotion dwelled. _"Who are you?"_

"I am Michael. I brought you here to hear you sing. I killed that man to hear you sing. I did everything because I-"

Time was slowing. She felt drained, exhausted, on the verge of collapse, and she couldn't go on.

"-love you."

Her eyes closed, and she floated away.


	3. Chapter 2: I Remember

She awoke in a bed that was not her own.

It was a large bed, with great wooden posts carved of mahogany. She sat up and looked around. The room, too, was unfamiliar, windowless and dimly lit. In the darkness she could make out a chair sitting in the corner, her costume draped across the back of it. She looked down; she was clad in a white nightgown made of a soft, woolly fabric.

At the other end of the room was a vanity without a mirror; rather, the silver-coated glass had been removed, leaving only the frame it had been in.

Elizabeth stood up, and felt the coldness of the floor beneath bare feet. Her shoes were lying next to the bed. _Where was she? How had she gotten here?_

_Wait._

Memory came flooding back. The masquerade. The masked man. Sing for me, Elizabeth. I killed a man for you. I love you, Elizabeth...

At the foot of the bed was a door. It was unlocked.

Escape!

Despite her panic, she opened the door slowly, peering out. A hallway stretched in either direction. She only needed to find the way out.

A click, and a nearby door swung open. She shrieked, startled.

Her kidnapper looked directly at her, then closed the door behind him.

She made a move, but he was faster, flinging himself in front of her as she ran to the right. Momentum propelled her into him, her hands striking his chest. She felt cold flesh through the thin cloth of his poet shirt, and the faint outlines of subtle muscle as his arms clamped down around her.

Screaming. She let out a wail. It was not so much a cry for help as the final noise of a terrified, dying animal.

He held her firmly in his grasp until her scream died down. Into her hair he said, in a quiet voice, "I want you to stay here with me."

She began to shake. A sob wracked her body. She clutched at his arms around her and her head drooped, eyes shut, grimacing.

"Please don't cry," she heard him say, and there was genuine caring in his voice. "Elizabeth, don't..." She tried to push him away, but her struggles were weak from fear and weeping.

A few minutes passed. She stopped shivering, and wiped away her tears. He watched her with an unreadable expression, his eyes darkening and brow faintly furrowed.

The air shifted. The atmosphere between them seemed to turn from the stifling heat of hysteria and fear to solemnity. An unspoken apology hung between them, as though neither knew who should be sorry.

Slowly, he released her, until only his hand wrapped around her wrist connected them. "I want to show you something, if you will promise not to run."

A moment's silence passed as she looked at his hand. The fingers of it were long and thin, white as a skeleton's. Obediently, she nodded.

They began to walk, in the same direction she had tried to run. The walls were decorated with old paintings of people long dead, doorways bearing sentry knights on an eternal watch.

They stopped in front of a plain wooden door. He turned to her, his brows lifted slightly, and his lips parted before he asked, "Do you know where you are?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

"You are still in Someplace Else."

He must have known by her expression what she was thinking, as before she could start screaming again, he said, "They won't be able to hear you. The walls are too thick." A pause. "I've tried it. No one ever came. It's hidden, tucked away, unused. Few people know of it, and fewer still know how to find it." He squeezed her hand. "This is why."

With a flourish, he opened the door. Light seemed to flood out of it, blindingly bright. She blinked, shielding her eyes. It was too bright for her to make out what was inside, so she took a step forward, hearing the door close and lock behind her. Suddenly afraid, she whirled around to face him, and the glare abruptly disappeared.

The room was huge, circular, and filled with piles of gold. No, not just gold-silver, and jewels, and statues and figures carved out of whalebone. Very slowly, she turned around, her face awed, taking in the sight. The image brought to mind tales of Aztec treasure, the palace of a sultan-she had never seen anything like it before.

He stood leaning against the door, watching her. "When I was a child," he began, in a voice barely above a whisper, "I would come in here and pretend I was a king, and this was all my treasure. I would sit there-" he pointed to a spot that was curiously devoid of riches, "-and imagine it was my throne." His eyes flickered over towards her. "Try it."

She blinked.

"Go on. Sit there." He was smiling faintly, but Elizabeth was too afraid to disobey. She sat, hugging her knees to her chest.

"Lie back."

Heart pounding, she obeyed, her back spreading across the pile. Her eyes went to the high ceiling, and she gasped. Directly above her was one of the mansion's stained glass windows, a round skylight in the design of a star. It was very beautiful; she felt sorry that no one else could see it.

"It's supposed to be the morning star."

Her heart leapt into her throat. He was next to her, sitting beside her, leaning back and looking at the skylight with her. The hair on her arms prickled at how close he was.

"Of course, you're probably wondering where all of this came from. I don't know either. It's been here for as long as I have." He went on in his soft-spoken way, "I used to think it was being kept here by my family until I was grown. My inheritance." He paused. "But no. It's all theirs. This room, this house, and everything in it."

Silence. He turned to look at her, his face mere inches from hers. A strip of orange light, tinted by the skylight, fell across his eyes.

"I am a prisoner, Elizabeth." He whispered. "I brought you here because I am lonely."

She did not react. The orange strip grew thinner, or perhaps his eyes grew larger. "Elizabeth," he said her name pleadingly, the prayer of the hopeless, "you don't know what loneliness is like, do you? You live amongst others, with family and friends. You are allowed to go where you please." His hand brushed against hers. "This is all I've ever known. I have been in purgatory from the moment I was born. There is no hope for me, nothing to look forward to, no future." He reached up and touched her face. She didn't push him away. "I can't even begin to make you understand, can I? You're everything I can never have, everything I've ever wanted..." His eyes were half-closed, and he began to lean toward her, slowly, his lips nearly touching hers-

"Michael."

At the mention of his name, he looked up at her. The sharp bones of his face cast wild shadows, and again, she was reminded: half boy, half dead.

_"Please let me go."_

Silence. He stared at her, his face slowly crumpling in despair before her eyes. "If you hadn't seen my face," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, "would you ever have loved me?"

For the first time, she examined him closely. His eyes were dark brown and almond-shaped, his skin pale and smooth. It was a melancholic face, both young and old, beautiful and terrifying. "I don't know," she meant to say.

But he seemed to have lost interest in her answer, as he reached up and brushed the hair out of her face. Her eyelids fluttered faintly at his touch.

His hand lowered to just below her chin, and his palm spread out, as though holding her head up. He began to sing, the same song they had sung together the night before, when she did not know who he was but only his voice. An immense feeling of exhaustion collapsed unto her, and his voice died away, drifting back to Nod, where she had begun.


End file.
